


#11: If You're Staying More Than One Night, Unpack

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [11]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Apartment, Gen, M/M, clint becomes an adult, gift cactus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is forced to get his own place. Phil pays him a visit and is concerned at what he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#11: If You're Staying More Than One Night, Unpack

Clint was with SHIELD for nearly a year before he moved into his own apartment off base. 

Okay, it was a year before they kicked him out, saying the dorms were meant for short term use for visiting agents and not intended to be permanent housing for operatives. He floundered around for another six weeks until Coulson took pity on him and led him down to HR, where he met Cessily, whom he’d taken to calling his “real-life advisor.” She found him a real estate agent (James, call me Jamie), who found him the first apartment Clint Barton had ever legally inhabited.

Cessily had also helped him set up bank accounts under his legal name, with direct deposit for his SHIELD pay, a retirement account, and online bill payment, including auto-pay for his rent so he wouldn’t be evicted if he was sent on a long term op with no access to his real identity or the internet. 

In short, Clint Barton had become an adult after being recruited by SHIELD. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t expecting to run at the first sign of trouble. He had a roof over his head, steady pay, and job that he was good at (and possibly even liked).   
It was on a rare day off, about a month after he’d finally moved off base, that Clint was using to do laundry, when Coulson showed up for the first time.

“Home visit?” Clint asked lightly as he stepped back to let Coulson enter.

“Welfare check,” Coulson agreed with a nod, dressed in jeans and trainers, with a leather jacket over a dark blue Henley. 

“I can take care of myself, y’know,” Clint grumbled good naturedly.

“I never doubted it for a minute,” Coulson answered dryly, handing over the paper bag he carried. “But as your current handler and direct supervisor, it’s up to me to check on your wellbeing and make sure you’re not eating the paint off the walls for lack of knowledge about grocery stores and debit cards.”

Clint levelled a stare at his boss for a moment before snorting, realizing he was being punked. “Right. What’s this?” he asked, holding up the bag.

“Call it a housewarming gift,” Coulson answered, glancing around. He may have been kidding about the grocery store, but he was clearly there to check on Clint’s living situation. Whatever else Clint might think about his relatively new employer, SHIELD took care of their people.

The space wasn’t huge. Clint had a second hand television, to which he’d hooked up a game console and blu-ray player, two of the few things he’d bought new when he’d moved in. The “entertainment center” was made up of boxes and milk crates, which also served as his bookcase, holding his few well-loved paperbacks and the six movies he’d bought for himself in the month since he’d moved in. His couch was battered and lumpy and it had been $10 at the thrift store and a six pack of beer to his neighbor to help him get it up the stairs. The coffee table was likewise cobbled together from cinder blocks and a piece of wood that looked to have been a closet door at one point. 

Clint peeked in the bag when Coulson bent to examine the movie and book collection. He pulled out a small potted cactus with a tag containing care instructions. Under that was a small pink bakery box, and under that was a gift card to the local homewares store. Clint stared at the plant for a moment, before moving to set it on the small ledge that divided his living room from miniscule kitchen. 

“Thank you, Sir,” Clint said, popping open the lid of the box, finding a half-dozen cupcakes in various colors (and probably flavors). “You didn’t have to.”

“I beg to differ,” Coulson said, looking around him into the small kitchen. 

Clint’s collection of mismatched plates and flatware hung out in the strainer on the counter; there weren’t enough of them to bother putting them away, and he didn’t eat at home enough for it to matter, anyway. He had two coffee mugs and one really big cup, and a random assortment of bowls, all of which he’d picked up at the local thrift store. The only thing he’d purchased new in the kitchen was one of those coffee makers that used the pods. It stood out, matte black and chrome against the white washed cabinets and counter top.

“Please tell me you at least have a pot to cook in,” Coulson said, turning to look at Clint.

Clint nodded. “Two. And a tea kettle. And a baking tray. And yes, I know how to use them,” he said sarcastically. “I grew up in a circus, not in a pack of wolves.” Granted, he was better at cooking for a crowd than himself, but at least he knew he’d always have stuff in the freezer to thaw out if he didn’t want to cook. “You need to see my bedroom, sir?” he asked with a wink and lewd grin.

“Don’t make me tase you, Barton,” Coulson responded, but followed him down the hall.

The final thing Clint had bought new for his first apartment was a bed. A huge California King sized pillow top mattress on a solid wood frame with headboard that took up the bulk of the space in the bedroom. He’d also bought two sets of new, high-thread-count- sheets, in dark blue and dark purple, and about a dozen pillows. He liked pillows, okay?

“Barton.”

“Sir?” Clint looked to Coulson, who was staring at Clint’s two duffel bags on the floor. Both were tightly packed, organized according to Clint’s exacting personal standards perfected over years of moving from place to place on a whim, or living out of a caravan where he had a total of three square feet to himself.

“You haven’t unpacked your clothes,” Coulson said softly.

Clint shrugged. “Duffel bags work fine, sir.”

“Clint,” Coulson said, his voice gentle as he turned to look at him. “You’re not planning to run at the first chance you get, are you?”

“No,” Clint said, kind of affronted. “Why – oh.” The thought struck him as he realized what the place must look like to someone who hadn’t had Clint’s upbringing. Almost everything was second- or third-hand, and what wasn’t still wasn’t so extravagant it couldn’t be left behind (with the exception of the bed, but Coulson knew as well as any in their business that sleep was a commodity and you did what you could to make sure that sleep was comfortable whenever the opportunity arose). 

“Sir, Phil,” Clint said, correcting himself. “You know how I grew up. I don’t need all that crap that people seem to gather along the way in their lives. Besides, it’s not like we spend that much time at home, all things considered.” In the small closet next to the bathroom, the buzzer on the dryer sounded. “I’m not planning on going anywhere,” he promised.


End file.
